


The Northern Crown

by hapakitsune



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Arranged Marriage, F/M, Pseudo-Incest, Spoilers, Wedding Night, kissing cousins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-04
Updated: 2016-07-04
Packaged: 2018-07-20 02:42:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7387321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hapakitsune/pseuds/hapakitsune
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They were married in the Godswood as the snow fell around them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Northern Crown

**Author's Note:**

  * For [daisysusan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/daisysusan/gifts).



> so I caught up on season 6 of Game of Thrones and frankly if they aren't going the marriage of convenience plot with Jon and Sansa I don't see the point. But anyway here is a little thing I wrote about their wedding night, which contains a lot of talking around Sansa's past trauma and dealing with consent. okay bye.

They were married in the Godswood as the snow fell around them, catching in their hair and on their lips. Sansa wore a dress she had sewn herself, pale grey and embroidered in green. Jon wore black, as had become his custom. When they took each other’s hands, Sansa’s fingers were cold in his. 

He still bore the name Snow; the revelation of his parentage did not change the fact that he was a bastard, and he would not take the name Targaryen. He would not ask Sansa to forsake the Stark name, and so he would continue to be Lord Snow, and she Lady Stark. In many ways, nothing had changed. 

Except that she was no longer his sister; she was his wife. 

Her face was very pale and very beautiful as she said her vows. There were times that she looked so much like her mother, and now was one of them; strong and fierce and beautiful, just as Lady Catelyn had been. Jon did not think he was worthy of her. No, he knew he was not. 

In the feast afterward, Jon felt as though he were a boy again, except now he sat at the head of the hall. At his side Sansa was smiling at something Bran was saying, her head ducked down. Davos was sitting close at hand, with Brienne and Podrick: their trusted confidantes. 

It was Davos who had suggested the marriage, though he had acknowledged it was odd. “Now that we know you are not Ned Stark’s son, there are some who may no longer wish to support you. Lyanna’s name carries a great deal of weight; but the Targaryen name is not loved.”

“What do you suggest?” Jon had asked, aware of Sansa watching him. “I would see Sansa as Queen of the North, but will they follow her?”

“They will follow her if you are united,” Davos said. “Siblings cannot marry, but cousins may. No one would contest your right to Winterfell at that.” 

At that, Jon had looked to Sansa, unbidden. “I won’t ask you to do that,” he told her. “You have the right to decide who you marry, not be used for politics yet again.”

And Sansa had lifted her chin—she kept surprising him, this woman who had once been his sister—and said, “Perhaps I would decide to marry you.” Her eyes glittered, hard as ice. “We hold the North. Together.” 

In truth, Bran should be Lord of Winterfell; but Bran didn’t want it, nor could he lead the North, something he admitted with no small amount of bitterness. He, too, was much changed from Jon’s memory of him, harder and harsher. He supposed they have all changed; he hoped that Arya, wherever she might be, had not been broken. 

They had been careful with the feast, all aware that weddings of late had not been happy affairs. Only their trusted allies, the ones they could count on beyond all else: Lyanna Mormont and her advisers; Meera Reed; Brienne and Davos; the wildlings. Tormund had not ceased his ill-advised attempts to court Brienne, who seemed only to find him suspicious. Jon smiled to see Tormund lifting his cup to her in a toast.

There would be no viewing of the consummation. Sansa was, by name, a widow, and even if she had not, Jon would have sought to spare her. There was a look in her eyes at times that he could not name, a kind of detachment that frightened him. He could not help her, that he knew. She had been telling the truth when she had said no one could protect her; the worst of her enemies were now inside her own head. 

They were to sleep in the room that had once belonged to Ned and Catelyn, though little evidence of them remained. Between the siege and the Bolton occupation, much of the Starks’ belongings had been burned or ruined. Sansa had taken charge of re-fitting Winterfell once they had settled in, and it seemed every time Jon returned from scouting or hunting, he found it had become a little bit more like a home. A new home. 

When the feast drew to an end, with no bloodshed either, Jon offered Sansa his hand. She took it after only a moment of hesitation, and they left the hall together. No lewd remarks followed them; Jon wondered who had decided that. 

Once inside their chambers, neither of them knew quite what to do. Sansa looked down—she was a tiny bit taller than him—and said, “I ought to call my maid,” but made no move to do so. 

“I can help you,” Jon said after a moment. “If you show me what I need to do.”

There were so many laces. Jon loosened them, carefully not to touch her, and stepped back once he finished. “There you go,” he said. 

“Thank you.” Sansa looked at him over her shoulder, smiled very faintly, and then stepped behind the folding screen in the corner. Jon swallowed and began the laborious task of removing his own heavy clothes. 

Someone had thoughtfully laid out his nightclothes at the end of the bed, and he put them on quickly before moving toward the fireplace. It was only the early days of winter, and still it was cold. Not quite as cold as it was north of the Wall, but perhaps he had softened. He sat on the fur rug laid out in front of the hearth and stared into the depths. 

Fabric rustled behind him. Sansa settled beside him in a cloud of blue fabric. Her hair was still up in its elaborate braids, and she was picking at it with little success. Jon smiles and said, “May I help?”

Sansa’s gaze darted to him, and for a moment he was sure she would refuse. Then she nodded and turned her back to him. She held herself rigidly, as though afraid, and Jon had no idea how he might tell her that she could trust him. He could only show her. 

He was gentle as he ran his fingers along her braids, finding each pin and carefully pulling it out before setting it in a neat pile on the hearth. Slowly Sansa’s shoulders came down as he let each braid fall against her back. When all the pins were removed, he began, carefully, to unwind her hair, staring intently at his hands so he would not think about where they were and why. 

Her hair slipped through his fingers like water, soft as silk. It was so long, so silky. So unlike Ygritte’s, and yet so similar in color. But he should not think of Ygritte; she was gone, and Sansa was his wife. His _wife_.

“They say Targaryens can’t be burned,” Sansa said suddenly. “Do you suppose that’s true?”

“I have seen stranger things in my life,” Jon said. “Do you wish to test it?”

Sansa laughed, a startled sound. “I don’t think that will be necessary.” 

Jon smiled to himself and let her hair fall through his fingers. “There.”

Sansa reached back to pull her hair over her shoulder and began to plait it in quick, efficient motions. “Thank you,” she said without looking at him. 

Jon bit his lip, then forced himself to say, “Sansa, we both know this marriage is only a formality. You ought to take the bed. I will take the floor, if we find a blanket for me.”

At that, Sansa finally turned. Her face, once so easy to interpret, was impossible to read. “Do you suppose that will satisfy our allies?”

“How are they to know?” Jon asked. 

“We have servants,” Sansa said. “No; you will share my bed. You are my husband.”

“Sansa—”

“This is my third wedding night,” Sansa said. “There is very little that can surprise me.” Her mouth twisted bitterly. Jon’s hand clenched on his thigh. If there was an afterlife, he would find Ramsay Bolton and pay him back for every ill he had inflicted. If only he had beaten him more; but Sansa had needed justice, and so he’d let her have it. 

“I will not ask you to share my bed in that way,” Jon said awkwardly. “That is not what you agreed to.”

“Yes it is,” Sansa said. “This marriage was to give you legitimacy as Lord Stark. You think people will not protest if there are no heirs?” 

“Sansa, please—”

“Do you not think me desirable?” Sansa asked, her chin going up in that defiant way. “I know I am not the wife you would have chosen for yourself—”

“No!” Jon winced at how vehement he sounded. “No, Sansa, you are beautiful.”

“Then what is stopping you?” 

“Because I am not the husband _you_ would have chosen!” Jon drew back and hugged his knees to his chest. “This is your third wedding, as you say. And none of them have been your choice.”

“This _was_ my choice,” Sansa said. “Davos may have suggested it, but I agreed. The north is ours, Jon. This is how we keep it.” She straightened and fixed him with a fierce look. “Kiss me,” she commanded.

“Sansa—”

“Kiss me,” she said, a slight tremble in her voice. “Before I change my mind.”

Jon lifted his hand to her cheek; she did not flinch. She met his gaze, and for a moment, he saw that vulnerable piece of her that she had stored away. “Very well,” he said quietly, and he kissed her. 

She was very still, not moving. Jon wondered if she had ever kissed someone she truly liked; if she had ever been kissed in a way where she felt truly wanted. He slid his hand to the back of her head and coaxed her mouth open, and felt the moment when she gave in to it. Her breath hitched in her throat, a little surprised sound, and then she was turning into him, resting her hands against his chest. 

“You’ve done this before,” she said when they parted. Her pale cheeks were flushed, her lips damp and full. “Haven’t you?”

He would keep nothing from her; he had sworn that to himself. His chest constricted as he thought of Ygritte, dying in his arms. “Yes,” he said. 

And Sansa seemed to hear his grief. She did not press him for more, only rested her head against his chest. After a moment, he wrapped his arms around her shoulders and held her. He should feel stranger about it; but though he had been raised as Ned Stark’s son, he and Sansa had not been close. It was Robb and Arya he had felt true kinship with. 

“For what it’s worth,” Sansa said, voice muffled by his nightshirt, “you are exactly the kind of man I always wanted as a husband. Honorable and kind, and a hero. You are all those things.”

“That is kind of you to say,” Jon said. “And you, Sansa—any man would be lucky to have you as his wife. I count myself fortunate to have you at my side.” He let his hand settle in her hair. “You are beautiful and clever, and you have made Winterfell into a home once again. I am grateful to have you. And I swear to you that I shall never ask you for anything you do not want to give, and that I will keep you in my counsel for all our days to come. You are my wife, but more than that; you are my queen. Together we hold the North.”

Sansa did not lift her head, but he felt her mouth move against his chest; a smile. “And I swear loyalty to you, and promise to never bring you dishonor,” she said. “I will hold Winterfell for you if you leave, and I will defend your home.”

“Our home,” Jon said. Sansa looked up, smiled, repeated, “Our home,” and Jon kissed her again. This time, it came much more easily, her mouth warm and yielding, and as he drew her up to their bed, he saw a flash of desire in her eyes; a promise for later. For now, though, he was content merely to have her in his arms. His wife; his lady; his queen.


End file.
